


Hello, I'm still here (all that's left of yesterday)

by Elisexyz



Series: Strangers [3]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Season/Series 01, Some References To Garcy Ex-Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 03:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19124071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Noah knows to knock two and then three times before letting himself in. Garcia might just throw the kitchen knife at him if he ever forgot.





	Hello, I'm still here (all that's left of yesterday)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the "Survivor's Guilt" prompt [on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card on Tumblr](https://heytheredeann.tumblr.com/post/185456496169/survivors-guilt-fill-for-the-bad-things-happen).  
>    
>  It's set between the two other fics in this series, and it was born out of one (1) line in Caitlyn's fic: it gave me feelings about a Flynn/Noah friendship of sorts, and here we are. ~~So what I'm saying is that it's her fault.~~  
>  Title from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MHGtlEYZBA).

Turning on the news was probably a mistake.

(Then again, his judgement hasn’t been too sound lately, has it?)

It isn’t at all surprising that they’d try to pin their deaths on him, but it had somehow not really occurred to him before now. Maybe because his head is a total mess.

Seeing Iris and Lorena’s smiling faces, frozen in a stolen picture that used to sit on the fireplace in their home, is a punch in the gut. Reading the headlines and hearing the reporters explain how he had some kind of fit and murdered them both makes him want to throw up.

He doesn’t have the good sense to turn off the TV, and he listens until he has to push himself on his feet, dragging himself to the bathroom – and trashing half the furniture in the process – so that he doesn’t throw up on the floor what little food is in his stomach.

He doesn’t bother changing his shirt or brushing his teeth afterwards, and he only goes back to the couch, retrieving his ever-present kitchen knife – that had ended up stuck between the cushions in his rush to get up – and Lucy’s journal.

This is his third read already, but his attention span is what it is these days, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t yet have a complete grasp on all that insanity.

(They could be lies. They could be meant to be a distraction to make him go insane, or get him killed while trying to execute some desperate plan.)

(If it _might_ get him his family back, it’s always a risk worth taking.)

(What good does his survival do anyway, if he doesn’t at least take down the bastards?)

Noah knows to knock two and then three times before letting himself in. Garcia might just throw the kitchen knife at him if he ever forgot.

With his story apparently all over the news, Garcia doesn’t really expect him to come anymore.

(At most, he expects a bunch of cops to show up, and he doesn’t know what he’d do then. It would be ridiculously easy to get himself shot, with a kitchen knife at hand and the murder of his family on his shoulders.)

Surprisingly enough, there’s two knocks, followed by three, and Noah lets himself in like there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

“Hi,” he says, closing the door behind him and dropping his bag to the ground as he takes off his coat.

Garcia eyes the windows for flashes of sirens, but there’s nothing.

Noah doesn’t question the lack of response, quickly approaching him to get to work instead, and, crouched down in front of him, he frowns.

“Did you get sick?” he asks. “Is it the meds?”

Garcia wants to snort. The _meds_ that make him sleepy and easily killable are not exactly something that he’s comfortable with right now. He’ll live with the pain, there are worse things.

“No, those are fine,” he lies, neutrally.

Noah raises his eyebrows. “You aren’t taking them, are you?”

He considers lying, but what for? He doesn’t look like the type to force-feed painkillers to him anyway, at worst he’ll get a lecture that he’ll easily tune out.

“Nope,” he confesses, shameless. “I’m not exactly a fan of passing out. Makes me an easy target.”

Noah considers him for a moment, then he shakes his head and moves to help him take off his shirt – Garcia is by now so used to the routine that he follows his lead without even realizing it.

“I could give you something less strong,” Noah offers, as he starts taking out clean bandages. “But you should take _something_.”

“Maybe,” Garcia concedes, giving him a sceptical look as Noah starts working like it’s business as usual. He gladly announces that there’s no infection, he reprimands him for pulling a couple of stitches, he advises to stop walking around for longer than strictly necessary.

Garcia is starting to think that the bombshell will never drop.

“Do doctors not watch the news?” he finally asks, in a moment of silence.

Noah glances up at him. “We do.” He offers a slight grin. “When we are not too tired not to pass out two minutes in, that is.”

A pause. “So what exactly are you doing here?” Garcia finally asks, more sharply than it’d be smart, for a man in his position.

Noah thankfully doesn’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about, and he only shrugs. “If I believed the news, at most I’d come here with some cops, not leave you to die,” he highlights, because apparently that’s an important point to make.

“But you don’t,” Garcia comments, frowning slightly in confusion. “Believe it, I mean.”

Noah shrugs once again. “I _believe_ that there is something weird and complicated going on here.” He pauses. “Plus, I trust that Lucy wouldn’t want to help you if you weren’t a good man.”

That makes a bitter laugh rasp in the back of his throat, the thought of Lucy’s betrayal still burning, the guilt for introducing her into their lives, for bringing her into his _home_ , cutting him open.

(If someone should have died that night, it’s him.)

The only thing that comes out is a snort, of which Noah takes notice without commenting on it.

“I’m assuming that you _won’t_ tell me what it is that’s going on,” is what he finally says, leaning back a little to look at him in the eye.

Garcia presses his lips together, shaking his head once. “Not a word.” A beat. “Believe me, it’s better for you if I keep my mouth shut for a change.”

He seems like a good guy, unaware of what Lucy actually is, of the kind of people that she’s surrounded by – people who’d kill an innocent woman and a _child_ just because some asshole decided to ask a question –, and the last thing he needs is to implicate him into this any further.

He’s already walking on thin ice by visiting him, although he has assured Garcia that he’s mindful of any tails – which might not be _too_ reassuring, considering that Noah is far from a spy or anyone remotely competent in the area –, if he started sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong— it’d end with gunshots in the middle of the night.

“It was worth a shot,” Noah mutters, going back to readjusting the stitches – it hurts like a bitch, but it’s so much better than being alone with his head, than watching the news: it’s grounding, and painkillers are _definitely_ a bad idea anyway.

They stay in comfortable silence for a while, Noah not raising his eyes from his work and Garcia glancing alternatively to the door and to the windows without fully realizing it, ever paranoid that they’ll be found any minute and not actively wishing for it merely because he isn’t alone right now and he _might_ have a shot at getting some justice.

He eyes Lucy’s journal, a shitty attempt at making it up to him for getting his family killed, or maybe a trap, but still the only thing he’s got left.

They are already saying that he’s a killer, he’s going to go down as one. Only he’ll do his best to take down at least _one_ of bastards that did this to him on his way to hell.

He thinks back to Iris and Lorena, and he thinks of the funerals that probably already happened, he thinks of her family, that became _his_ family too, and of how they must hate him, because he killed their precious little girls.

(In a way, he actually did.)

(But not on purpose, never on purpose. He should have kept his mouth shut. He should have realized what was happening and gotten them out too, not just himself.)

“I didn’t kill them,” he feels the urge to say, because _someone_ should know, someone should understand: he _got_ them killed, but he didn’t pull the trigger, and he’d do _anything_ to go back to that night and take the bullet himself.

(Time travel.)

(Maybe it’s not quite so impossible.)

Noah raises his eyes, considering him for a moment. “I believe you,” he says, quietly.

Garcia has no idea if he’s lying or not, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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